The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by C. Wade Bentley
that one every-other weekend
At some point during the night the milk turned,
though no one will be the wiser until breakfast.
That bottle of wine, once worth more than your car,
might now offend some of your fine-palated guests,
who would detect the faintest bouquet of wet dog
from a cork gone bad. And it's not just beverages,
as it turns out. The homegrown terrorist sleeper cells
in your bloodstream, for instance, for so long
living quietly in quaint, suburban, bone marrow
bungalows, have now activated in order to surreptitiously
poison you while you take the kids to soccer practice
and think you might fancy your neighbor's wife.
Some weeks later, another heated discussion will take place
inside the house while your son and daughter play
in the yard. See how one is on the swing set, reaching
her toes to the sky, while the other races around the yard
with a T-rex soaring in his hand, yet to discover
how absurd it was to think they were meant to fly.
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